Nightwing Unleashed
by surgere
Summary: John Blake had always hidden his anger behind a smile, but after Bane's Reckoning, the anger vanished. Instead, a calmed, focused, and determined individual replaces the hotheaded cop John used to be. Now, all that's left is the creature of day that hunts at night. The mysterious masked vigilante. Nightwing. Rated T to be safe.
1. Prologue

Prologue

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A couple of men surround the lone man, big and burly in their leather jackets. His father, the man encircled by these gangsters, tried negotiating, asking for more time to get the money he owed them, but John could tell from the men's faces that they wouldn't wait any longer. Ever since his mom had died, his father quit the circus and floated around, looking for easy jobs and throwing away the money he and John's mom saved in hopes his father could gamble back a fortune, but his father was always better at jumping from great heights than reading people. John knew this day would come, the day his father's gambling problems would come back to bite them, but he still jumped at the crack of a bullet entering his father's heart. The gangsters ignored the little boy who watched everything from the side, who didn't run to his father's dead body or collapse and sob like others did. He stoically watched as the gangsters simply disappeared down the alley, back to wherever they belonged. _Certainly not the shadows,_ John would think grimly. _Those belong to me._ How long had he stuck to them, hidden in them, whenever those men came drunk and searched for someone to take out their frustrations on when John's father wasn't around? While his father couldn't read people well, John had tagged along to his father's games often enough that he could read even the best poker faces; the child knew when to send his father on a random errand so the gangsters would conveniently miss him when they came by to check if he had the money, and the acrobatic skills and stealth John learned from his father and the street life respectively allowed the child to keep out of harm's reach so long as the men didn't have guns.

Once the gangsters were gone, John checked his father's body, just to see if the man was still alive, and the boy closed his father's eyes and whispered a small prayer his mother had taught him before she died. He got up, resolutely ignoring the shaking of his knees, and he left the alley, searching. It was a block away when John found a sleeve to tug and someone to send for his father's body, and as several police officers left for the location John gave them, the man whose sleeve John tugged knelt down and offered his own police jacket to keep the boy warm in the chilly night. "My father's dead," John found himself blurting, and the officer nodded. "I know," he assured, and John, the boy who could read even the best poker faces, felt bemused yet comforted at the look this officer held in his eyes as the child tugged the jacket around him tighter for more warmth. These were the eyes of someone who had done this before, of someone who really cared. That was the first time John met James Gordon.

XxXx

_Crack! _

"Agggh!" There was the clutter of the wooden weapons being dropped, followed by the wielder falling on his knees, cradling his ribs. "Yeah, yeah, no pain, no gain!" The taunter laughed, followed by the roaring laughter of others, and a crowd of men pushed the injured man and his weapons off and out of the ring. It was dark and damp in the stadium, but none of its occupants cared. The underground Arnis competitions were one of the best ways to get quick money, if one knew who to bet on. It was like boxing, only there weren't any rules, time-limits, or breaks, and Modern Arnis didn't rear its head here, with its practice of hitting "cane-to-cane"; the bottom line was make your opponent go down, before you do.

"Who's next?" the man in the ring roared, raising both of his arms in the air with the two long, straight sticks, or "canes," in his hands in a sign of challenge. John gulped down the last of his water and tossed the plastic bottle aside as he headed towards the ring. "Woah, there, bird brain," a man with copper skin and dark hair, a Filipino, grabbed his arm, squeezing through the crowd to come to John's side, "going against that ox up there is just asking for suicide." John looked at him. "I've been winning all my matches the past months, Pedro," he shouted through the noise of the stadium. His Filipino friend, Pedro, shook his head. "This guy has been in the competitions longer than you have. You're a quick learner, I'll give you that, and you have amazing intuition and all, but I'd rather see talent like that fulfil its fullest potential than get broken before it does." John pulled his arm out of Pedro's grasp, before slipping through the ring's rope and readying himself for his opponent. "Idiot!" his friend called after him, but John just laughed. "This is why you're a bird brain; you have nothing going on in there except wondering where you can next peck around for trouble!"

John's opponent whistled at his new target. "Aren't you a little short?" he chuckled, before shrugging and sending a confident look to the crowd. Bets were made, some in favour of John, as they had witnessed his previous fights before, while the majority gambled in favour of the veteran. The referee whistled, signalling the start of the match, and the veteran barely turned around to face his seemingly easy opponent when something struck his chest and abdomen. Angered, he caught the next blow with his canes, and John was overwhelmed with a succession of blows as the man got up, pushing him to the edge of the ring. John blocked and parried every strike, however, protecting all of his body while sneaking in quick blows to his opponent's wrists and elbows, but those watching knew that putting up with that many strong and fast blows would quickly tire one out, and the crowd chanted, waiting for John to slip and get hit. His opponent, meanwhile, winced at every strike, discovering that John actually had acknowledgeable strength. "Just get hit already!" his opponent growled, before suddenly smirking. John raised a brow, confused, before he read through his opponent and his intuition kicked in. The man swung his canes at John when his defence would have collapsed after running into the rope of the ring, but John read through his opponent. He flipped backwards, landing on the rope with perfect balance, before springing forward and using his opponent's shoulders to vault himself over. As he landed, he struck at the back of the knees, and the crowd shouted in excitement as his opponent fell.

The big man got up, nursing his injuries. His eyes blazed with an angry fire. "I never lose," he claimed. John shrugged, a boyish smile on his lips. "Famous last words." They engaged, and John discovered that the man wasn't a veteran of the competitions for nothing. He didn't just focus in his muscle power and the protection of his build, but the snap-fast reflexes ingrained into an Arnis fighter were definitely present as he fought, and John began to struggle against the rage of an experienced underground Arnis fighter. A blow caught the shorter man on his thigh, and John quickly responded with one at his opponent's knees, emphasising on an injury already given, and the two broke apart, catching their breath a moment. "What are you doing?" Pedro shouted from the edge of the ring near him, frustrated in knowing how well John could fight and watching him ignore opportunities for taking down his opponent for good. John glanced at him. "I have a no kill policy," he shouted back. The Filipino cradled his head and moaned. "Not everyone here shares the same sentiment! Take advantage of the openings when you see them, or he will kill you first!" John ignored him as he engaged with the veteran again.

They exchanged more blows, each more painful than the last, and when John saw opportunities to potentially kill his opponent, he ignored the openings and instead struck and counter-attacked somewhere or somehow else, refusing to use them. Each time, his opponent squinted at him, confused on John's actions, but he didn't show mercy, and instead continued taking advantage of every hole and slip in John's defence, even nearly cracking his ribs in one blow. "What are you doing, idiot?" the veteran shouted, striking again with a painful hit. "Don't go pussy on me!" Another blow, this one the harshest, caught John up his chin, and the crowd roared in adrenaline as he stumbled. John shook his head, clearing his vision up, and his opponent laughed. "Where's your anger?" Suddenly, in a move too fast to be seen, John disabled the veteran of a cane, sending it flying to the side where it bounced off the post holding the nets up and hit the back of his opponent's knees again.

John quickly kicked the cane aside before the other could pick it up, and he smiled back as his opponent realised what had happened in only seconds. "Oh, I'm always angry," John replied, and then he struck. The veteran attempted to deflect the blow with his one cane, but it only slipped from hitting his chest to his shoulder, and he grunted at the pain. They fought once more, the veteran a major threat even with one cane, but in a flash of seeing through his opponent's moves, John was a blur again before he hit the back of the man's knees, followed through, and pushed the man down with a blow to the chest, sending the veteran flat on his back. John's opponent groaned, his cane now joined with the other at the side, and with a checking glance of the referee, John was deemed winner. The crowd erupted in an earth-shaking roar of excitement and wonder, a countless number of hands clapping John on his back as he descended from the ring, and money was passed around as the minority of the crowd won the bets. Pedro approached him, gleefully carrying stack loads of money.

"I always knew you could do it, bird brain!" Pedro laughed, and he began splitting the money to hand over to John, but he shook his head. "I don't do it for the money," John smiled as he dabbed his broken lip with his sweat towel. Pedro shook his head. "That's what you always say," he said, "but in the end I'm buying your food with the money you earned. You don't even have a place to stay; don't act like I didn't see you on the streets!" John shrugged, not answering. Pedro sighed, clapping John's back as the two retreated to the exit of the stadium. John was silent the whole way, until he surprised Pedro with a few words at the exit. "I'm leaving." Pedro looked at him, brow raised, before shaking his head, aware of John's seemingly impulsive decisions. "Here," Pedro said, slapping a wad of cash into John's hand, "that's enough to get you anywhere across the continent; New York, Los Angeles, you name it. I don't have a reason to spend all of this money anyway." John nodded in appreciation. "Thanks." The two split ways, before John stopped Pedro for a moment. "Oh, and say hi to your wife and children for me, would you?" As John disappeared down the street, Pedro chuckled. John had purposefully given him his earnings and slept on the streets so that Pedro could support his family.

XxXx

Gordon sighed, staring at the rows of white tombstones before him that honoured the lives lost from the "Reckoning." A few other people were there, placing flowers at a loved one's grave, others simply kneeled before one, praying. The commissioner flicked a gaze at the sky, recalling days when a searchlight lit the clouds and displayed the symbol of Gotham's loyal hero, who took the fall even for Dent's actions. One shouldn't live on the past, he learned, so Gordon looked away, instead observing the people at the graveyard. He raised a brow when he saw a young man with his back to the commissioner, playing with something before holding it up, revealing it to be a sticky note with a single line of writing on it, though the print was small enough only the man holding the note could read it. The young man held a lighter up to it, allowing the flames to eat up the paper and the winds to steal the ashes away. He wasn't in front of any particular tombstone, simply keeping the dead souls company as if hoping a certain one would find him and place a comforting hand on his shoulder as the ashes floated away. Gordon moved his gaze elsewhere to give the man privacy, and he marvelled at the stained glass windows of the church nearby instead, his thoughts now turning to a certain young man who quit the police force and disappeared to who knows where for the past six months. He had such potential; it was sad to see it go to waste.

"Sir."

The commissioner jumped, turning around to see John standing before him. Well, speak of the devil. "Blake," he greeted, before recognising the man who burned the note as the ex-detective before him. The young man seemed to have gone through some sort of change; a toughness and wisdom had ingrained themselves into John's skin, a sort of confidence yet humility colouring the once hothead's posture. "Long time no see," Gordon chuckled. John smiled back. "I needed to go away for a while," he explained vaguely. "I came to the graveyard to bid farewell to a dead man's note, and it's just now that I've seen you in several months." Gordon blinked. "I thought I felt someone's eyes on me, Commissioner. I figured you were curious about what I was burning," John's smile widened, a playful twinkle in his eyes. Gordon sighed. "Being around a youngster like you makes me feel like an old man," he confessed, and John clapped his back in good humour. "I'll see you around, sir."

XxXx

Alfred, Lucius, Gordon, and John had attended Bruce Wayne's burial shortly after the Reckoning six months ago, just the four of them, but the sorrow there was enough to fill four-hundred people. Everyone left the Waynes' graves, and Alfred stayed behind, weeping and apologising for not being able to protect the Waynes' baby boy. Now, months after disappearing to the underground world—and soon enough, its Arnis competitions—John had returned, and he listened to the reading of Bruce's will before receiving what the man left for him. John had arrived quite late for the reading and missed Gordon.

John didn't mention to Gordon that the note he just burned came along with the ridiculously large money inheritance Bruce Wayne left behind for the ex-cop. After visiting the coordinates the note pointed to, John understood what the billionaire trusted him with, and he got to work tuning up the tools and customising the gear in the Batcave. Everything had been neatly organised so that John figured out how to work everything soon enough, and he felt honoured Bruce entrusted his beloved city to John with obvious time and thought put into it. The suits left behind were modified to fit John, and everything password, fingerprint, or voice protected opened to him when he used his birth-given first and last names, Robin Blake. After burning the note containing the coordinates to the Batcave and bidding goodbye to Gordon, John visited Bruce's grave the second time that year, where he gave his regards. Alfred spotted him and said nothing, offering only a smile that John returned, the two comfortable in each other's presence. They simply stood there for a while, honouring the life of a man greatly misunderstood and deserving of both the peaceful life he should have had and the final rest he received.

After, he entered the Wayne mansion given to the Gotham City Orphanage John had been raised after his father's death. It was to revisit a part of his childhood, John felt, and he could already feel how lighter the atmosphere felt now that the orphans were given a bigger, brighter living space. Laughter filled the air as sunshine poured in, and some of the children were playing with the grand piano, but several keys were missing due to the destruction done on Bruce Wayne's property by thieves and criminals. Officially, the billionaire was tied up by the criminals as they looted and destroyed his mansion, before he was mauled and set on fire. There wasn't much of him left, none of which was recognisable, but there was enough evidence to confirm that it was the remains of Gotham's Prince by the DNA results the investigators gathered. The truth and the lie of Bruce's death hurt either way, and John sighed at that. He had a sneaking suspicion, though, that Alfred had purposefully disabled the piano of the keys that allowed the elevator to the Batcave open, as John had discovered the broken elevator and connected the dots when he realised Wayne Manor was just above the Batcave.

A crowd of children ran past him, bumping into his legs as they chased each other into another room, and John smiled at the scene, when a paper caught his eye. He bent down and picked up the fallen drawing no doubt having slipped out of an orphan's hand while running past John, and he raised a brow at the childish art. A mix of marker, crayons, and colouring pencils portrayed what first appeared to be a blue arrow against a black background, until John realised he was looking at a bird with its wings spread apart, as if in flight. More scribbles showed the bird doing a variety of things, one with yellow light coming out of its eyes while a moon hung above it, another doodle showing it morphing out of shadows. An orphan ran up to John, the crowd of children from earlier tagging along when they noticed the absence of their friend, and John bent down when the child obviously wanted to look at the paper.

"You found my drawing!" the child exclaimed. John handed it to him. "Yes, I did." Noticing similar sketches on other papers in the room, he added, "This bird must be pretty popular." "Everyone knows the Nightwing isn't _just_ a bird." More young orphans gathered around as the others began chattering when they heard the name. "Don't you know, Mister? It has night vision–" "–is super fast!" "—can blend into the night like Batman…." "Batman?" John echoed, and the children nodded. He should have known—Batman had been a symbol of hope and an idolised hero among the youth of Gotham. For these children to make up an animal that could be like the caped crusader was no surprise; the telltale chalk silhouettes of a bat that graffitied the orphanage and family parks only reinforced the idea. "Do other kids know about this Nightwing?" "Of course." This time, a caretaker answered for him. "Everywhere we go, be it the movies or parks, we hear about this bird." The old woman chuckled. "It's been the talk between adults these days, how fanatical the children get about it." John thanked the caretaker for replying and bid the orphans farewell, before heading out, an idea forming in his head. A smile lifted his lips.

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**A/N: I hope that was a good start! After watching _The Dark Knight Rises_, I immediately wanted to write my own take on how John Blake would continue the legacy. I've looked forward to posting my own fanfiction about it for a while!**


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

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The entire city of Gotham seemed to gather to one spot and fall into a silence when the Batman statue was put up. Right after the solemn figure of the loyal hero was settled down properly, however, cameras flashed everywhere, reporters and citizens in general taking a snapshot of the immortal knight, his eyes forever keeping watch over the city. As everyone erupted in laugher, cries, and general shouts of joy, relief, and gratitude for the dawn long awaited for, a lone figure crooked between the different slants of two adjoined building rooftops watched from afar, looking down on the sea of people united to honour a true hero. It was the middle of the day, but he knew how to disappear into even the faintest of shadows, so the figure didn't worry. Clad in black sans for the blue silhouette of a bird across his chest, the nameless figure dipped his head in a slight bow of respect for the soul whom the statue represented. After a moment of absorbing the lifting sight of thousands of people celebrating, the figure slipped away. Crime didn't take holidays.

While a majority of Gotham's people were gathered, a group of unshaven men entered a bar, where the only occupant was the barkeeper, who stood behind the counter, watching the celebration on the bar's television. They asked for all of his money, which earned them a sharp-tongued answer and the threats of a good dressing down and getting thrown out, when one of the unshaven men revealed a gun aimed at the barkeeper's heart. Silent but obviously angry, the old man did as ordered, moving for where his money was kept, when he pressed a button under the counter that alerted the police. Discovering what he had done, the unshaven men grabbed the money, and the thief with a gun turned to shoot the barkeeper, when he realised the old man had vanished. A slow man like that couldn't run away unnoticed so quickly, and the armed robber alerted his partners, panicking. "How can you lose a sixty-year old man so easily?" one shouted, but another stopped him. "It doesn't matter, the police are on their way," he reasoned, and they turned for the exit, when they jumped at the dark, menacing figure at the doorway. "_The police are the least of your worries_." The words were spoken low, reverberating across and around the room, the walls even seeming to vibrate at the thunderous voice. The robbers choked back the frightened scream that rose to their throats, and one thief braved to move while his partners stood frozen stiff in fear. The armed robber quickly fired at the figure, not caring if the shot was even accurate, but the figure was faster, moving and striking like lightning. The bullet missed, but it didn't matter. The robbers' fates were sealed.

When the police arrived, the group of robbers were hanging on the bar's coat-hangers, babbling about a creature that had the voice of thunder and the speed of lightning; some swore they saw a black and blue bird, others believing it to be a manifestation of the righteous fury of justice. The barkeeper admitted he was knocked out after witnessing the thieves grab his money and had woken up in the safety of the bar bathroom when the police arrived, so he didn't see anything. With the state the robbers were in, they practically stuck their wrists out to be handcuffed, wishing for the safety of jail over the open air where the man-creature or whatever could find them again. Newspapers, magazines, and TVs flooded papers and screens with reports; police stations, homes, and streets buzzed with the news. Who had watched over the city while most of them were away at the uncovering of the statue–or more specifically, _what?_ Surprisingly, the popular answer was found from the children. It was Gotham's new guardian born from their imagined bird and their crayon drawings, the masked hero Nightwing.

XxXx

The clink and clank of car parts and tools filled the air, a comfortable background noise to John's ears as he worked on the underside of a Volkswagen bug. "Almost done there, sonny?" John rolled himself out from under the car, looking up at his boss with greasy hands and face. "I actually just finished, sir." Saul, a white whiskered man of fifty already balding, smiled down at the ex-cop, tossing a dirty rag at John that he happily used to clean his hands with as he got up. "I haven't seen anyone mend and tune a car like you," John's boss praised, and the dark-haired mechanic smiled back. "Thank you, sir. It means a lot." "Very respectful to boot," Saul laughed, before hacking into coughs, and John patted his back, aware of the man's smoking habits. "I've learned a few things about cars when they were well-paying jobs on the streets," John explained, and Saul waved him away, uncaring for the ex-cop's experience with the rough side of life. Mechanics who worked in Saul's Autocare were tough, enduring, resolute characters, most of them once street rats until Saul shaped them up into respectable young men and women. John considered himself lucky he managed to land a job there after he showed off a few of his talents with cars, though he didn't have to work another day of his life what with the money Bruce left him. Saul didn't care for when John appeared to work, so long as he showed up and committed to the standard six hours every day, so John found it advantageous when it came to organising his time around his nightly activities. The many words exchanged between workers, customers, and visitors who came to hang out and learn something of fixing cars so they could do it home also meant a neat, social web that John took advantage of to stay in the know of the happening in all parts of the city.

"The circus was unbelievably rude," John heard someone say, and he excused himself from Saul as he approached the customers–two fathers–and fellow workers at Saul's Autocare. "There's a circus in town?" he asked, and the fathers nodded. "The people there cheated me of my money! A man at this one booth fooled me with bizarre puzzles and riddles, that it was as I was leaving the circus with my daughter, broke, when I realised I still deserved to have my money." "Yeah," the other agreed, "I got the first riddle right, but then that man tricked me into answering another riddle as if I had to or else I wouldn't get my money back, and then I lost." While his experience in the circus was short and a long time ago, John wasn't aware of a role in the circus that involved what the fathers spoke of. "Where is this circus?" John asked, and the fathers shrugged. "I tried finding them the next day to demand my money back, but they weren't there," one replied. "I heard there's a circus down near 54th," said a fellow autocare worker, "though I don't know if it's your cheating circus." "I wouldn't try either way," another mechanic put in. "You never know if the man's going to trick you out of your money again." The group nodded in agreement, and they let the subject go, aware the world would always have people like the cheating circus man. John's intuition, however, was acting up. Something was off about the circus.

After work, the ex-cop headed to 54th, where the traveling circus awaited. They were packing up, however, most of the decorations already put away, and John discovered they planned to leave the following morning. The owner of the circus was blunt and rude, much to John's distaste, as well as reeked of tobacco, so the mechanic quickly left his presence. The lilt of a short song in a dirty, worn-out tent set up on the side where it was hidden well caught John's attention, stopping him in his determined route home. He glanced around to see if any circus people were looking his way, before veering off the exit path for the small tent, curious. On the way, he grabbed a random black mask from a booth so he could kind of fit in or at least hide his identity; he put on the domino mask which covered his eyes and the area around them as he headed to the tent. The notes sounded again, a little different, but John could sense the distress from the voice that didn't quite sound like a human's; it sounded a little scratchy, yet a flute-like quality underlay the song. John slowly pulled the flap away, cautious, when the voice released a different string of notes, less distressed and more weary, wondering who was there. "Shh," John found himself saying, "I'm not going to hurt you." He pulled the flap away all the way, where enough light fell in, revealing a large blackbird cramped in a cage bent in, making the bird's living space very uncomfortable. It sang another set of notes, not trusting of the young man but curious. John slowly brought his hand near the cage, coaxing the bird to calm down, and it seemed he almost succeeded, when the blackbird suddenly erupted in a frantic melody, angry and scared. John peered at it, confused, when a shadow fell over him.

John judged his situation and the advantages he had when it came to defending himself, and he slowly turned to see what appeared to be a gentleman, wearing a nice pin-striped suit and fedora. Everything of him was green except his white silk tie and straw-coloured hair, and John only got a glimpse of the mysterious man's eyes before the purple domino mask the man wore shadowed them, making them appear colourless. "You're not allowed here," he said as he smiled kindly and even offered a hand, but John didn't smile back, straightening up. The blackbird behind John sang another song, this one a trill of danger, but the ex-cop didn't need a circus animal to tell him he was in trouble. John kept his eyes on the gentleman as he inched his way around the man to leave the tent, and it was only until the gentleman turned away that John hurriedly returned his mask and left the circus grounds. He held on to the image of the gentleman in his mind, noting the white silk tie decorated with question marks.

After slipping his helmet on and making sure not water-resistant materials were safely secured in his pockets, John rid his motorcycle to a certain, unknown and out-of-the-way river no one bothered with, the land around it deserted and having been deserted for a long time. He drove his bike into the middle of the river, continuing forward against the currents, when the ground he was on suddenly shifted, slanting down as metal moved above him, preventing the water from pouring in while still allowing the river to flow. John rode on forward, even in the lack of lighting and when the ramp behind him lifted, where no one would see any evidence of an underground entrance even if they inspected the riverbed long and hard. It didn't take much longer speeding on his bike until he heard the roar of something outside and above him in the metal tunnel, and he shot out, skidding to a stop on the bank of the pool created by the waterfall in the Batcave.

The underground tunnel that ran from point A of the river created by the waterfall to point B in the Batcave was built by John with the help of a geographic map he found on the cave computer, blueprints John created for the tunnel, and a whole lot of time and energy. And strength. It wasn't easy hauling things around, even when he used tools to help him build the underground tunnel. While the river occasionally bent this way and that, the tunnel ran as the proverbial crow flew, which was to say, in a straight line. John didn't want to wear out the routes Bruce no doubt took to get to the Batcave via the Tumbler, as someone would eventually notice the worn grass and unearthed dirt and probably end up following the path to the waterfall that shielded the cave from view. The underground tunnel John built was to ensure the secrecy of the cave's location.

Quickly, on the super computer Bruce left for him, John searched up what he could on the silk material he saw the gentleman wear, disturbed at the sight of it. He recognised it from what the gangsters who killed his father wore, all who had some sort of piece of clothing that was made of the white silk John saw on the gentleman. He discovered, after some digging, that the mafia group called the Maroni Family was quite rich in affording the custom-woven silk that eventually became characteristic of only the Maroni Family buying, though the group was not as wealthy and influential as the family headed by Carmine Falcone before Batman took them down. The Maroni Family hid well after the League of Shadows and the Falcone Family were stopped and defeated, but they reappeared when the Joker made a deal with them that, in the end, led to the collapse of the Maroni Family. Now, after the Reckoning, the remnants of the Maroni Family no doubt saw the opportunity to take the position the Falcone Family lost years ago in the underground hierarchy of things. With more searching and eventually some spying and eavesdropping done by Nightwing, John learned that a mafia group was using the traveling circus as a means to transport drugs across the border—most likely the Maroni Family. This explained why the circus always stationed itself near the prime transportation spots where their trucks could export and import a lot of drugs overnight under the guise of moving to another location for their circus, when in reality they were major players in the drug dealing business.

It was a few days down the week that John found a lot of activity in the police station as the ex-cop headed to work. Wondering at the sight, he approached a familiar cop named Ross, who was John's contact with the policemen trapped in the sewers during the Reckoning. Ross was a hardworking Chinese with a buzz cut and a witty tongue, and while he had respect for his superiors, it was only for those whom Ross thought deserving of it. Gordon was one of them, as well as Bruce Lee–John had amusedly discovered–and while the Asian cop had a few eccentricities, he was one of the few John knew he could depend on. When John asked what the commotion was all about, Ross looked around to check if anyone was paying attention to the two, before leaning in, whispering.

"Last night someone left a note at the station containing newspaper-clipped letters that spelled out a riddle. The higher ups didn't want us panicking, you know, even more so the civilians, so we kept the riddle overnight and some of us tried cracking it," the Chinese explained. "What did the riddle say?" John asked, hoping to gather information while he could before deciding what Nightwing should do about it. "'When is the time of a clock like the whistle of a train?'" Ross quoted, when a patrol bustled in the station, searching for someone before noticing the new Deputy Commissioner who replaced Foley, a brown-haired man named Mark Hayes. "Sir, we've located the two men from the missing persons case from a few days ago," one of the cops informed. The Deputy Commissioner turned to the patrol group. "Where are they?" "Dead." Murmurs rose at that, and Hayes raised a hand for the policemen to calm down. "The two victims' wives called us when they found their husbands in their garbage dumpsters," another of the patrol explained. "The site is…." He hesitated. "I guess you should just see for yourself. Here, I took a picture with my phone just in case." The cop pulled the photo up and handed his cellphone over, and Hayes stared at it for a while, a grim look on his face. "When the time of a clock is like the whistle of a train…" John mumbled to himself, before the clock on the wall caught his eye. "Ross," he elbowed, nodding at the clock, "look at the time." Ross did so, before realising what the ex-cop meant. "Sir!" he called, and Hayes looked at him. "It's two to two, sir," he stated, and Hayes raised a brow. "Yes, I know what time it is." "No, sir," another officer caught on. "The answer to the riddle is _'two to two.'_" A silence fell on everyone. Who would give a riddle and perfectly orchestrate a murder so that both reached the police at certain times?

Gordon entered the room, having left his office when he heard the murmuring, and Hayes explained the news and gave him the phone to look at. The officers who caught a glance at the photo while it was passed over adopted surprised faces, turning to each other to whisper quietly. "Do you think it's the Joker?" Hayes asked, stone-faced and standing tall as his men shifted in apprehension, his collected presence fortunately calming their nerves a bit. Everyone turned to the commissioner, waiting for an answer. Gordon stared at the picture a little longer and then shook his head, before returning the phone to the officer whom it belonged to. "This isn't his style," the commissioner stated, and there was the collected sigh of relief, tinged with confusion when they wondered who else it could be.

Ross asked the cop with the cellphone out if he could see the picture, and John peeked at it as Ross pulled up the photo. John stilled. The two dead were the two fathers who visited Saul's Autocare several days ago, the ones complaining of the circus man who tricked them of their money with riddles. Ross then lifted the paper that held the riddle up to the picture of the murder scene, comparing a certain symbol seen in both. A green question mark was painted on the chests of the dead men and on the bottom of the paper containing the riddle, the symbols obviously painted by the same hands to the police-trained eye. "If its not the Joker, than who?" an officer asked, and the cops turned at one another curiously, as if hoping an answer would appear for them. Gordon and Hayes shared a look, and the former sighed. "Ever since the Reckoning, the FBI have personally seen to investigating the status of certain individuals that could became a threat to national security. They have refused to share any information with us until their investigation is complete," Gordon explained. Some cops shifted in irritation, not liking how something that should have been their job being taken away from them, and without their consent nor knowledge.

A group of smartly dressed men suddenly entered the room, all of them sporting earpieces and straight faces. One man stepped forward, pulling back his suit jacket to reveal an identification card clipped on his belt–as well as, unintentionally or not, a gun–before allowing the jacket flap to cover it up again. "Commissioner and Deputy Commissioner, I am Agent Reid of FBI," he introduced himself. "My team and I have news on the Joker." There was a momentary pause, before Gordon spoke up. "Well?" The FBI agent cleared his throat, forcing away the awkward silence. "Simply put, the Joker died from a drug overdose meant to put the pain from his scars at bay. The psychiatrist assigned to the Joker, a Harleen Quinzel, was perturbed by the Joker's screams and hysterical laughters at night and kept giving him more drugs meant to act as pain killers, but eventually lead to his death. In an act of guilt and…" he hesitated, disturbed, "love, the woman committed suicide with an overdose of her own just minutes after. This happened shortly after Bane began his occupation over Gotham. As the cell the two died in was at the very depths of Blackgate Prison, no one found the bodies until we investigated, despite the prison's release months earlier."

Ross spoke up. "If this isn't the work of the Joker, then who?" Agent Reid looked his way, spotting the cellphone and the paper with the riddle on it, and he turned back to Gordon and Hayes. "There is a criminal at large with similarities to the Joker, and the FBI weren't notified of it?" he asked. "We are a capable police force," Hayes defended, speaking for the cops in the room who clearly disliked the supervision Agent Reid was suggesting. "I do not mean to demean," the agent soothed the rising anger, "but some things are out of your league, and thus the FBI's responsibility." "Now hold on a minute," Ross stepped forward, miffed, but Gordon cleared his throat, sending the Asian a message without looking at him, and Ross yielded. Not caring for Ross's outburst, Agent Reid continued. Gesturing at his team, he said, "Our superiors will want this and our investigation on the Joker to be released to the public for awareness purposes. The FBI will take on this riddling man case." He then turned to leave, his men doing the same in military unison. When some cops looked like they wanted to speak up, Agent Reid stated, "Any complaints are to be taken to our superiors." The FBI agents then departed, leaving the cops in bewilderment. Superiors? Was it possible the Cabinet was directly involved, then, or had at least been the ones responsible for the FBI's presence in Gotham? Hayes released a short breath in his irritation at the situation, and Gordon's rubbing of his temples reflected his. "Sirs?" one cop asked, and the two looked up. "Do as the agent said," Gordon sighed, and everyone obeyed. John slipped away, absorbing the events as he continued on his way to work.

XxXx

"You want a hand in our drug dealing business?" a black man clarified, leaning back in contemplation. A young man with messy black hair, a bandanna covering his nose and mouth, and a grey hoodie with its hood pulled on nodded. His hands were tucked in his pockets, his form slumped over the cheap plastic chair, but he had proven himself quick and strong, thus potentially helpful in moving imported and exported crates of drugs on and off the circus trucks. John came under this guise of a lowly street rat interested in profiting from the drug transportation business in hopes of getting better information of the mafia group using a circus as part of their cover. At the connection made from the question marks on the two dead fathers and on the green-clothed gentleman John met several days ago, John found a greater, advantageous use for the temporary disguise he created. The black man whom John learned to be named Edward Skeevers drummed his fingers on the table between them and nodded, agreeing to the idea of another helping hand. "Alright," he addressed John, "you've got a role in moving the crates." The meeting was short, but John got the inside position he wanted.

While John was leaving the circus grounds, a small group of circus workers with white silk handkerchiefs in their pockets called him over. "You the new guy?" one of them identified, and John nodded, silent. "The quiet type, eh? He won't be of use, then." John's brows furrowed. "Of use for what?" he asked. The group grumbled, shifting on their feet as some cast glances at an empty green booth. "There was a riddle guy who worked with us for a while–didn't belong to a mafia family, though. He pooled in extra money by tricking the customers and shared some of it with us, but then he just quit and disappeared." Another added in, "Tony's not going to be happy." "Tony?" John echoed, and the workers nodded. "Yeah, Mister Tony Zucco. We're of the Zucco Family, you see. Those dirtbag Skeevers work on the other side of the circus. We have to cooperate in this drug business until Tony finally kills the Skeevers Family's leader and makes the Zucco Family the big dog on the block." John shook his head, confused. "What of the Maroni Family?" "What of them?" the circus workers laughed. "Mister Zucco and us worked in the Maroni Family for a while, yeah, but the Maronis fell after an unwise deal with the Joker. Where have you been, newbie?" John said nothing, excusing himself and leaving the circus grounds. It seemed two, once low, mafia families were working together in the circus-drug act, the Zucco Family biding its time until it could rid the place of the Skeever Family. The riddling man was just an outsider having his fun in the underground world, sporting the certain white silk only because he worked with the Zucco Family for a while. All of that discovered, yet John learned nothing that could help him track down the riddling man who killed the two fathers. Just to put icing on the cake, the FBI wasn't allowing Gotham's police force to investigate the riddle murder.

Things were more complicated than he thought.

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**A/N: I hope that was a good start, and sorry for the long wait! Please leave reviews!**


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

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John and his father idly watched the well-dressed family leave their limo as their butler looked over the damage done. A taxi driver was apologising repeatedly, but the father of the family waved him off with a sympathetic smile, calming the driver down with the assurance that accidents happen all the time. John cast a worried glance at his father, as he heard his mother died in a car accident, but John's dad didn't show any proofs of emotional pain, simply a longing. John looked back at the family, admiring their expensive clothing that could pay for John and his father's meals for a few days. He wasn't jealous of their wealth, no, but he did feel a bit of the same longing his father reflected when John watched the rich dad pick up his son as the mother assured the boy the fender bender wasn't a big deal. "Alfred saw it coming before we did, so the damage to the limo is minimal," the mother smiled, rubbing her son's back comfortingly. "Once again," the taxi driver bid goodbye, "I'm sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Wayne." Accepting the apology, the wealthy father and mother then turned to a nearby restaurant to grab a bite to eat while they waited for the police to come, and John and the boy's eyes met. John could see the slight fear in the boy's eyes, and he suddenly felt a responsibility to provide comfort in some way. Was this the boy's first car crash experience? John had never been in one, but he had worn the same surprised, scared look when John's father first taught him how to bike. Slowly, John raised a hand and waved, and the boy looked at him for a moment before raising his own hand and waving back.

The family disappeared into the restaurant, the boy's parents and John's father oblivious to the wordless exchange between the two children, and John's dad finally pulled John away from the crash site to head home. Seeing such wealth in a family must have triggered something, because John's dad murmured, "When I win a lot of big gambles, I'm going to buy the circus your mom and I worked at." John said nothing. He didn't particularly care for if they ever went back to the circus or not, he just wished his father would stop thinking about mom. It seemed ever since his mother's death, John and his father's lives fell into what could hardly be considered living anymore, and all John knew was the life after his mother's death. "Did mom even care for the circus?" The question left John's lips before he realised what he had done, but his father didn't seem to react much to it; his posture was already weighed down with a sadness even John's question couldn't add to. "I don't know," John's father confessed. "She had a strong sense of justice, though. Whenever criminals tried buying the circus," John's father turned to his son, a faint smile on his lips, "your mother was the first to stand up to them."

XxXx

Lucius Fox gazed across from his desk at his guest whose insistence in meeting Lucius led to the building's security nearly throwing the guest out before Lucius stepped in. According to the lady at the front desk, Lucius and a John Blake were having a sudden meeting in order to discuss potential business between Wayne Enterprises and Saul's Autocare. In reality, John had come for technological help regarding his night activities. In all honesty, the ex-cop didn't think he could replicate the same rough voice his predecessor used to disguise his true voice, nor could he keep anything like that up without worrying if those he was talking to could understand him. Lucius's eyes crinkled at that, and he pressed a series of somethings on his desk before the bookshelf to the side moved, revealing an empty metal room. John followed the CEO inside, confused as to why but trusting enough to join the man in, when the bookshelf closed them in and John felt his sense of gravity shift. He discovered they were standing in an elevator whose only other level it opened to was an underground storage room of a sorts filled with gear, technology, and other devices John couldn't recognise.

"I had to modify that elevator and make it go vertical and horizontal since I moved the basement containing my inventions elsewhere after the Reckoning," Lucius informed as they stepped into the temperature-controlled air with an echoed click of their shoes on the concrete. "I have several other hiding places for my inventions, just in case any of them are discovered." Lucius led John to a portion of the basement dedicated to computers, and John watched as the CEO played around with the keyboard before what looked like a CD tray slid out of a monitor. Lucius picked up a thin box of metallic strips from the tray. "These strips alter sound by responding to certain vibrations," Lucius explained as he handed it to John. "You'll have to place one on your throat if you want it to change your voice." The ex-cop tested one, discovering the strip was bendy, and he held it against his throat. "Like this?" he asked, and his voice came out in the low tone that he used when he took down the bar robbers several days ago without John even having to try. Lucius nodded. "I guess I'll have it implanted in the turtleneck-like part of my suit," John said as he returned the strip with its duplicates in the thin case.

Something caught his eye. "What's that?" John asked. Lucius followed his line of sight. "That is a fire-resistant material, insulated against electricity, and is made of triple-weaved Kevlar and light-sensitive material, so it will darken according to the amount of light hitting it." They approached the material draped over a mannequin like a poncho. John felt the material, surprised at its flexability. "This was originally developed for night raids. Unfortunately, the military decided the costly mass-production of the material wasn't worth it," the CEO explained. "From the look in your eyes, though, I know the price won't matter to you." John looked at Lucius, who was smiling. "How much?" John asked, and Lucius waved him away, shaking his head. "If Bruce trusted you, I trust you," he stated. John took out a hefty wad of bills and handed them over anyway, and Lucius gave him a look as he was forced to accept it, an exasperated sigh leaving the CEO's lips as he did so. "Anything else?" Lucius asked, gesturing around the room. John felt the material a little more. "Do you have paint that is also light-sensitive?"

XxXx

"Blake, weren't these guys the two customers from the other day?" John looked up from the car he was working on and headed over to where some mechanics gathered around a newspaper, Saul among them. John recognised the two pictures of the murder victims from the article, and he nodded, confirming that the two fathers were the ones killed. "It's sad such a thing had to happen," he commented, which brought out sounds of agreement from his fellow workers. "This lady reporter's all over the story," Saul stated, turning the newspaper so that it faced John properly. "A little too much, if you ask me." At John's confused expression, another mechanic explained. "She's critisizing this 'Riddler'–first for taking fathers from two families, and then for using trashy riddles. The reporter initially wrote harshly about the crime committed, but later on in the article, she's really being mean about the killer." Saul huffed at that. "Maybe the riddle was bad, so what? She doesn't have to fill her entire article with heavy criticism. Nobody wants a page of only negative words. It brings you down, you know?"

John then suddenly spotted a familiar face passing by the autocare, and he recognised the person as one of the circus workers. Had the circus relocated again? It was still daytime, though, so they wouldn't be able to move the drug crates without at least one person in the neighborhood noticing and alerting the police. John quickly finished his shift and jumped onto his motorcycle to head down the direction he saw the circus worker go, more cautious this time and making sure no one was following him. At the circus site, John parked and hid his bike before spotting the circus worker and shadowing him. The worker led John to the main tent, where John met Edward Skeevers for the job interview, only this time someone else awaited. Several other circus workers with white silk handkerchiefs–members of the Zucco Family–had gathered there as well, and John quickly hid in an empty tent and pulled the flaps apart a bit so that he could watch the Zucco members without being seen.

Someone stood at the centre of the circus workers' attention, but the person was too short for John to be able to see the individual past the wall of workers blocking John's view. The apparent leader spoke. "What do you mean you can't find Nigma?" The carnival workers shifted. "We searched everywhere, Mister Zucco. Edward has simply vanished," one explained. The worker who spoke was suddenly pulled down by the collar to kneel and speak at eye-level with whom John discovered was Tony Zucco, but John had yet been able to see him, as Tony was apparently short. "If anyone starts digging deeper into Nigma's murder, they're going to first find out about our circus, and then our drug business," Tony hissed. Another circus worker spoke up. "Sir, the riddles Edward used weren't very impressive as the lady reporter pointed out," the worker held up the newspaper containing the article, "so no one's going to guess that the tricky riddle man in our circus is the same murderer who used corny riddles." "The two men Nigma killed only had one connection: they visited our circus days before dying," Tony pointed out. "Find Nigma and kill him, before any of this gets out of hand." The workers all nodded and turned to leave the tent, and John quickly left his hiding place and returned to his bike before any of them spotted him.

XxXx

Gordon and Hayes stood by each other, the former holding another paper with a riddle on it. "What's looser than a thread, a fish, and flying ribbons?" Gordon mumbled to himself as he reread the paper, and Hayes sighed. "Didn't we get this green paint tested by Forensics?" he asked as he pointed at the green question mark painted on the paper. Gordon nodded. "Unfortunately, you can buy this stuff anywhere; the paint is too common." A familiar group entered the police station, and Hayes rubbed his eyes at the inevitable. "The FBI are here," he informed, and Gordon looked around, before spotting someone he knew trustworthy. While Hayes fulfilled his position as Deputy Commissioner well, Hayes didn't quite connect with officers and other people as well as Lieutenant Ross did, as proven when a majority of Gotham's police force was trapped underground and Ross kept their morale together and led them out when Batman and John provided an exit. Also, while the FBI could restrict some of Gordon and Hayes's actions, they couldn't order around lower officers and prevent them from disobeying their Commissioner and Deputy Commissioner's orders. Ross was the perfect witty officer Gordon needed.

"Ross," he called, and the Lieutenant came. "Sir?" Gordon showed him the riddle. "Memorise it, and then investigate with some _outside_ help," he ordered, before glancing at the FBI approaching. "Some things we can't do without vigilante aid," Gordon finished, just low enough to escape the FBI's hearing. Ross quickly memorised the riddle before Agent Reid stepped up. "Another riddle?" he asked, and Ross casually swept past the FBI, unnoticed as he was just a lowly officer. Hayes nodded, his face not giving away what Gordon had done. Agent Reid took the riddle and read it once, before looking up. "The GCPD was keeping material from us?" It was more of a statement than a question. Gordon cleared his throat. "We were waiting for you to appear," Gordon explained, but from the way his and Hayes's silently defiant expressions didn't match what Gordon said, everyone present knew the Commissioner had made up an excuse. Agent Reid's lips thinned, but he did nothing to correct what Gordon said. "Don't do it again," he instead warned, and an agent behind Reid stepped up and took the riddle from Gordon's hands. As the FBI agents left, Hayes growled under his breath. "I'm going to rip that shiny identification card from his belt and shove it up his fancy **F**-**B**e-h**I**nd." Gordon choked on air at that, and he patted Hayes's shoulder. "It's no good insulting higher officials," he berated, but the quirk of his lips gave away his lack of total seriousness, "and I'm afraid there's already something up there that has made him stiff." Hayes turned to look at Gordon, taken aback and slightly relieved at the shared irritation. Several police officers had frozen in the middle of their tasks, equally surprised at what had happened, and Hayes looked at them. "Back to work," he ordered, and everyone complied, barely hidden smiles on their lips in amusement.

XxXx

Ross stared at the white tombstones a little longer, sad he didn't get to know all the names of the police officers who had been trapped underground with him during the Reckoning. His grandmother back in China had never hesitated to correct Ross's thoughts when he felt attached over something already done and passed, so it was not regret that the Lieutenant felt as he finally turned away from the tombstones and headed to the nearby church, but simply a sadness that gave him strength to do better next time. Hopefully, Ross mused, there wouldn't be a next time.

At the small but beautiful church situated near the graveyard, Ross came up to the steps leading to a cross hanging on the wall, where stained glass windows bathed the room in coloured light on either side of the cross. Above, a circular, stained glass window created a pool of light around Ross. A recent storm had broken some parts of the windows, creating holes where natural sunlight beamed in, but even the storm could not taken away the church's beauty. The circular window had unfortunately lost a lot of its stained glass, and Ross stood in its mostly yellow light for a moment with eyes closed, simply basking in the warmth. He was alone in the church, but the isolated peace felt kind of nice. Something fluttered, causing the light to flicker, and Ross opened his eyes, only to see a blackbird perched in the circular window, pecking at the stained glass remains. Ross watched it for a while, before he sighed. What was he doing here? Hadn't Commissioner Gordon sent him to find Nightwing? Maybe Ross's feet recognised he needed a momentary break and brought him to the church, but lamenting over the past solved nothing. Ross turned around to leave, only to start at the dark figure behind him, as if having stood there the entire time.

"Nightwing," Ross identified, and the vigilante nodded. Remembering his purpose, Ross quoted the riddle he had memorised back in the police station. Nightwing didn't give much of a reaction to the riddle, if nothing at all, and Ross wondered for a moment if the other had even heard him, when Nightwing threw a newspaper at Ross's feet. The newspaper was opened to a specific article, and Ross bent down to pick it up, recognising the negative write up about the "Riddler" by an equally negative female reporter. Putting the pieces together, Ross realised the answer to the riddle. "_A woman's tongue_ is looser than a thread, a fish, and flying ribbons," he stated aloud, looking up to meet Nightwing's eyes. "The Riddler no doubt got offended by what this woman had written," Ross said. Already planning ahead, the vigilante spoke. "I'll get to the reporter before the Riddler does. In the meantime, I need you to research behind the Riddler; figure out his background, motives, and predict his actions from there." Ross agreed and turned away to bask in the light a little more, before remembering the FBI agents holding a degree of control over the GCPD that none of the police officers appreciated. "I may not be able to be much help; the higher ups in government finally decided they shouldn't leave Gotham be and have sent FBI to take a lot of what used to be the police's job," he shared. Nightwing looked at him. "You'll do fine."

Ross blinked. Was that meant as an act of support, or had Nightwing really spoken as if he knew Ross well? For the first time, Ross wondered who was behind the mask. Shaking away his straying thoughts to focus on the moment, he recalled what he knew of the Riddler. "If I'm going to research on this Riddler, where should I start? Is he another Joker? A psychotic?" Nightwing shook his head. "Not quite. Everyone has their own way of hiding anger." The vigilante paused, as if having remembered something, before the moment passed. "Pull up background information on an Edward Nigma and bring me what you got," he finished, and Ross nodded. Was this Edward Nigma the Riddler, then? A flutter behind Ross broke his train of thought, and he suddenly became aware of a shadow dancing in the circle of light for a moment. Ross turned around, startled at the movement and sound that reminded him he was still in the church. A brown and white sparrow had joined the blackbird at the window, and they hopped around on the window edge as the sparrow tweeted and the blackbird sang. The brown and white bird reminded Ross of the sparrows he used to watch as a boy back in China, and he marvelled how the two birds, while different in several ways, were still able to communicate. Not wanting to be rude, Ross turned back to Nightwing, but the hero had vanished. Ross looked down at the newspaper in his hands, just now taking in what he had done and the hurdles that would come working with a vigilante. An excited smile lifted Ross's lips before he could stop himself.

XxXx

Nightwing swore under his breath when he found the female reporter convulsing on her kitchen floor, and he quickly swept the area to find it clear before he knelt down and checked the woman's pulse, neck, and the inside of her mouth. He glanced at the knocked down containers and chairs, and the spray painted green question mark on the woman's face, before identifying that the Riddler had caught the reporter by surprise and forced a drug down her throat, where she was left to die and be found by the police. Nightwing had been careful not to disturb anything so as to leave the crime scene as it was when he first saw it for the police to investigate, but he knew without having to check that the Riddler hadn't left fingerprints. If the criminal wore anything like what Nightwing saw when he accidentally met Nigma in the circus, the Riddler had worn gloves. If Nightwing's guess was right, however, then Edward Nigma was the Riddler, so he didn't need to go through the extensive amount of investigation usually tasked to a police officer when assigned to help solve a crime such as this. The wail of sirens came to Nightwing's attention, and he picked up the woman and headed out the door. Ignoring the officers and FBI agents, Nightwing went straight to the paramedics and informed the medics of his observations on the reporter's health, before turning to leave, knowing he left the woman in the best hands he could.

Agent Reid, meanwhile, struggled past the crowd of policemen to where he saw a black blur that could only be Nightwing, but by the time he got to the paramedics, the vigilante was gone. His agents caught up with their leader, but Agent Reid shook his head, wordlessly telling them they just missed Nightwing. Turning back to the Lieutenant who had delayed their arrival to the crime scene, Agent Reid stopped Ross's attempt to slip away to get back to station. "Hindering government officials' progress to a location can come with big consequences, Lieutenant Ross," he warned. The witty officer shrugged. "Perhaps," he agreed, "but I wasn't aware Commissioner Gordon was sending officers to the reporter's home until you shoved me out of the way," then, as if on a sidenote, "Sir." There was something in Gotham's water, Agent Reid humorously thought; all of the Gotham police officers he had met so far had a streak of confidence and loyalty to their fellow officers and people that Reid often saw lacking in FBI's own agents. A spark of admiration lit within him, but Reid didn't allow it to show on his face, or else this sharp-witted Lieutenant was going to think he scored a point against Reid.

"You told the Commissioner of where to send officers," Agent Reid stated, but Ross did nothing to confirm it despite the fact he held a specific article in his hands. Where had he gotten the newspaper from, anyway? Last Reid saw, Ross didn't have it when he left the station. Yes, Agent Reid noticed; there's not much that escapes him, even a stealthy attempt by Gordon to get Nightwing's help through Ross. Much to Reid's dismay, however, the one thing that did escape him was the vigilante his original, secret mission his superiors had sent Reid and his team to do was centred around. Agent Reid couldn't afford Gotham's police force to discover the real reason behind the FBI presence in the city, so Reid hadn't done what would have made completing the mission faster and easier as it would have definitely gotten the attention of the locals and the police right away. Agent Reid was determined to go through the mission with as little opposition as possible, but even he knew that the very target, Nightwing, would catch on at one point. The question was how the vigilante would react.

Agent Reid glanced at his agents, all loyal to one another; indeed, Agent Reid's team gained the title of most close-knit unit of all FBI teams. Batman appeared to have been sympathetic to an end, but Agent Reid knew next to nothing about Nightwing. Would the vigilante hurt Reid's men when he discovered the FBI's true mission? Reid sighed, rubbing his face. _"Vigilantes have always been loose cannons with anything from minimal to troublesome impact,"_ they said. _"The type popping up in Gotham has to be stopped; the city's police force has even united with the vigilantes! This is like nothing we've seen before. You know what this means, Agent Reid?"_ Stop Nightwing. _"Batman has already died; we've already investigated and confirmed that. Nightwing's profile is practically blank, however, and while this vigilante may respect his predecessor's purpose, it does not mean he will respond to governmental actions the same way."_ Kill, if necessary. _"We trust you and your team will handle this well, and we can even provide back up if needed, but you know the consequences if you fail the mission."_ Just stop make sure to Nightwing. At any cost. As Reid watched the paramedics stabilize the drugged reporter, however, he wondered. Would Gotham really benefit if they lost their hero?

XxXx

The last of Coleman Reese's muffled gasps echoed throughout his house, and the Riddler released the man's neck from his grasp and got up. The female reporter's murder, while satisfying, was but a distraction to make sure this murder wouldn't be noticed until later on. "Who knew?" the Riddler muttered to himself as he replaced his green fedora back on his head. Locating his cane, which he used to beat up Coleman in the beginning before strangling with his bare hands, the Riddler picked it up from the ground and strolled on his way out of Coleman's house, satisfied with what he had learned. "Who knew the Batman was Bruce Wayne?" he hummed to himself. If the Riddler killed anyone else who knew the Batman's real identity, then only the Riddler would know the big secret. He would be a step closer to solving the ultimate riddle, the question of life. A giggle spilled forth from his lips, and he didn't bother to stop it in childish glee.

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**A/N: Has anyone noticed that I hinted that the family in John's memory at the beginning of this chapter was the Wayne family? The boy was Bruce, whom John waved to! ;D Reviews will be appreciated. **


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